A Distant Reverie

Chapter 41

"Huff! Huff! Huff!"

Haggard breaths bellowed inside her head. She hurried down the damp corridor. The stench was horrific. Everywhere she looked, corpses and bones were scattered on the floor. Her feet stomped past—sometimes trampling on the soft fleshly remains or splashing into a puddle of blood. The acts made her grimace, but she didn't dare stop.

Footsteps thundered behind her.

She pushed past the stone walls, trying to propel herself faster down the meandering paths. But no matter what she did, no matter what tricks she played, the footsteps refused to cease.

Then suddenly, they stopped.

Silence.

For a moment, she could only hear her own ragged breathing. Morbid curiosity compelled her and she turned around.

Empty. The corridor was empty, minus the sea of carnage sprawled along the ground. Her heart thumped as she scanned the darkness, searching for signs of her pursuers. When she couldn't see anything, she let out a sigh of relief.

In that precise moment, her vision was covered by a figure cloaked in black.

Something hard struck her chest. She fell onto her back, reeling. The black-cloak pounced—their dagger aimed at her neck.

She felt it. The cold steel sunk into her flesh. Her hands instinctively reached for her throat, trying to pry the dagger away from where it didn't belong. Her fingers were instantly wet with warm blood.

The blade continued to descend, slowly carving a slit, widening the wound. She croaked, coughing up blood and gasping for air while trying to halt her death. Her conscious knew it was futile, but her instincts refused to let her relent.

"Why do you still struggle?"

The voice made her freeze. It sounded uncannily familiar.

"Why do you continue to hold yourself back?"

The hood shrouding her assailant's face suddenly fell.

"Why not embrace it?"

Blue-haired, sapphire pupils, and a smile as bright as the shooting stars. An apt description that sounded all too similar.

She was staring at herself.

------

Suisei's eyes shot open. Her hands instantly moved to her neck. Nothing. Her hands were clean. No punctures. No wounds. No dagger jabbed in her throat.

Nothing.

Confused, she glanced around. A wooden ceiling. A modest furnished room. Tiny rays of sunlight leaked in from the translucent drapes. A spacious bed that felt a little too soft.

Right. She was no longer in that terrible stronghold filled with mad cultists.

She touched her throat again just to make sure. Her hands were still shaking. The coldness of the steel, the stickiness of the blood in the space between her fingers, the sensation of death slowly engulfing her—all of it felt a little too real.

When she was finally convinced that she wasn't dead, Suisei sunk back into the bed. Suddenly exhausted, she rested her arms over her head. Sweat and grime coated her hair, accumulated from the terrifying ordeal.

...What the fuck was that?

She was no stranger to nightmares that ended in her death. She was an idol after all, a profession packed to the brim with stress and insanity. A nightmare or two like this was normal.